


I Wonder what the Bottom of the Ocean Looks Like

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cigarettes, Crying, Depression, I promise, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love, M/M, Pain, Poetic, Projection, References to Drugs, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, i was feeling sad ok?, ooc just a bit, the shipping is minimal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He’s drowning. Drowning in pain and loneliness. Too far from shore to save himself. Far too gone to shout for help. And there’s the people on the beach, not knowing how to pull him out. Not knowing what to do to save him. One of his younger brothers, Tommy, screaming his name. His dad, Phil, sunk to his knees, shoulders shaking. Techno, his other brother, face ashen and head bowed. Then, he's there. The one person who cared about Wilbur most. Running into the ocean to save him, almost sinking in the process. Almost getting dragged down himself.Maybe Wilbur's just not worth saving.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 216





	I Wonder what the Bottom of the Ocean Looks Like

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'd like to welcome myself to this community of writers. i'm not really a shipper (it should be quite minimal i promise), i just needed something to project myself onto. i hope you enjoy it, i was influenced by a ton of other writers, so thanks to them !! 
> 
> there's definitely some triggers in here so please be wary and stay safe 
> 
> tw// alcoholism, drowning, crying, referenced self-harm

Everything is bright. Too bright, too fast, too loud. Too much all at once. And everything is crashing on top of him, raining down on him. Like the Earth has spun off its axis and fallen into space. Nothing is stable anymore. His mind is painfully jumbled and nothing is right anymore. Is something burning? The world is on fire. Everything is curling into ash and he’s far too trapped in his mind to escape the flames. And suddenly the world has righted itself again. And he’s back in his living room, drinking cheap wine and watching trashy soap operas. Like a middle-aged mum. He’s a fucking middle-aged woman at twenty four.

He’s a mess. And no one seemed to care enough to find out why. At least, that’s what he thinks. He doesn’t check his phone anymore. Mostly he just finds himself on his sofa, drinking for hours. But he refuses to believe he’s an alcoholic. He could stop if he wanted to. He could if he wanted to. And he’s not dependent on the alcohol. He just likes how it feels. When he splurges on whiskey, he likes how it feels, blazing a burning trail down his throat. But most of the time, it's wine. Bottles of wine for a few pounds at the shop. And he’ll sit, feeling sorry for himself until he falls asleep.

He’s been holed up in his flat, isolated from the rest of the world. And some days, his phone just rings for hours and hours on end. But he’s too tired to reach out and shut it off. He’s convinced himself that he doesn’t miss his friends. His family. That he doesn’t care for them and they don’t care for him. And he doesn’t miss him. No, he doesn’t miss the feeling of being loved. The feeling of whispered longing and shy touches. He doesn’t miss it because he never deserved it.

The sky is crying today. Wilbur cries with it, tucking his face into a pillow and sobbing. His whole body feels heavy, like he’s swimming in an ocean. Like he’s drowning. And in some ways, maybe he is. Drowning in pain and loneliness. Too far from shore to save himself. Far too gone to shout for help. And there’s the people on the beach, not knowing how to pull him out. Not knowing what to do to save him. One of his younger brothers, Tommy, screaming his name. His dad, Phil, sunk to his knees, shoulders shaking. Techno, his other brother, face ashen and head bowed. Then, _him_. The one person who cared about Wilbur most. Running into the ocean to save Wilbur, almost sinking in the process. Almost getting dragged down himself.

Maybe Wilbur’s just not worth saving.

How long has passed since it stopped raining? Wilbur doesn’t know. Fifteen hours or fifteen minutes? A year or a century? It wouldn’t matter anyway. He feels his grip loosen on the bottle in his hand and it crashes to the floor, shattering. Red liquid spills over the carpet, spreading under the sofa and puddling sickeningly. It looks like blood. 

“Fuck,” he croaks out, pushing himself to a sitting position and stares at the glass strewn across the floor. He can’t leave it to soak into the floor. So he stands on shaky legs and feels his boots crunch over thorns of glass. He’s been wearing the same clothes for weeks now. They smell stale. Like old sweat and tears and drinks. A green jumper and faded jeans. And honestly, Wilbur’s first thought when he put them on was that they’d be ideal clothes to die in. Yeah, maybe he thought he’d end up wasting away on that sofa. In his green jumper and faded jeans.

He wobbles to the kitchen and presses his hands against the countertop. He shuts his eyes, head pounding. The sun has decided to peek out behind the clouds and the light burns hotly onto his face. There’s rubbish strewn over the floor. Empty packets of cheap biscuits and cereal boxes, litter the floor. Those were for when he got too hungry to bear anymore. So he found himself rummaging through the cupboards and eating whatever the fuck he could find.

Is it possible to be constantly  hungover? Because that’s what Wilbur feels. The amount of alcohol in his system is probably not a good level. Definitely enough to be on the drunk side of things. But is it drunk when that’s your constant state? If he’s constantly achy and sore and sick to his stomach, is he drunk? Or is it just the new normal? He grabs a towel and stumbles back to where the wine had spilled, falling to his knees. Right on the glass. And at first, he doesn’t connect the pain. Everywhere hurts most of the time, so he ignores it. Until he lifts his leg and finds rivers of red soaking his jeans.

He sits on the sofa, picking bits of glass out of his skin. The cuts stopped bleeding a while ago, but they still sting like a bitch. Somehow, the pain still got to him, despite how broken he truly is. Shouldn’t he be used to it by now? Shouldn’t he feel less because of the way his heart has been shattered? Shouldn’t the hurt subside? Apparently the answer is no. Because he’s still in fucking  _ pain _ . Stupid fucking feeling. He hates it. The way it crawls up inside of him and buries itself in his chest. Bites its waiting teeth into a vein, letting the venom flow. 

Sometimes Wilbur wishes he had the strength to unlock his phone. To tell everyone that he’s ok. To call them back and cry, telling them how much help he needs. How trapped he feels. He wishes he could see his family again. But what would they say? What would they do? Look down at him, disappointed at what he’s become? A depressed fucking alcoholic. That’s what he is. Maybe he’s accepted the fact that the fuzzy feeling in his brain makes him feel better. Maybe he’s accepted the fact that he relies on it. At least he doesn’t smoke. Not anymore at least. 

Sometimes Wilbur wants to speak to Tommy again. His little brother. He wants to be with his family once more. He wishes things could be normal again. But everything’s ruined. He wants to be with his family once more. He wishes things could be normal again. But everything’s ruined. He ruined everything. He ran away from his problems and disappeared off the map. All they have is his phone number, so Wilbur wishes that maybe he could have done something different. Asked for help. Talked to someone. But that’s what he does. He messes everything up. 

Him. Fuck. He was harsh. To everyone in his life, except for Wilbur. He saved himself for Wilbur. He saved his smiles and touches for Wilbur. Fuck. He was cruel. He pushed out everyone in his life. Except Wilbur. And Wilbur craved that love. He needed it. So why did he throw it away? Yeah, he doesn’t fucking know either. He left him behind and ran. 

“Fuck off!” Wilbur screams. He yells. At the stupidly boring wall in front of him. “Fuck you!” he feels himself shaking, hands balling into fists. These attacks of rage are common now. He feels angry and sad and upset all the time. He stamps his feets on the rug, feeling like a stupid fucking child. He tugs at his hair and kicks at the coffee table, tears pouring down his face. Fuck the neighbors downstairs. He doesn’t fucking know them. Fuck the landlord, he can kick him out. Wilbur doesn’t fucking care. 


End file.
